High life
Made in heaven
Taki
Last week, on a brilliant autumn day, a pretty English girl married her earl, and lived happily ever after. At least I hope so. Cazzy Neville, the second of the seven daughters of Lord Braybrooke, married the Earl of Derby, a former Grenadier Guards officer, in a beautiful English wedding, followed by a reception at Aud- ley End, the Jacobean pile of the bride's family, now belonging to National Her- itage.
Lord Derby I had never met, although I had crossed swords over the gaming tables with his immediate predecessor to the title that gave the famous horse race its name. John Derby was the only winner I've come across who always asked for `one more shoe'. Winners in chemin-de- fer usually hit and run. Not John Derby. And you can imagine what he was like when he was losing. Once — before the Gambling Act ensured that no one could have real fun — Derby won a fortune but continued to punt until the croupiers fell asleep. It was 9 am.
I met Cazzy about six years ago. I had lent my boat to a girlfriend of hers, and she had asked her along. On the last day, my friend thought it a fun idea to take a picture of the bikini-clad Cazzy with TA written in sun cream on one buttock and KI on the other. They left the picture behind with a sweet thank you note attached. A week later the mother of my children arrived on board — with the two kids — examined the photograph and rang me in London to inquire 'who is the blonde?' When I said I hardly knew her and had not been on board, she called me a liar and hung up.
Mind you, the mother of my children was right to be angry. Cazzy has the best figure in England. As the best man, Lord Dalmeny, correctly pointed out, 'she put the sex into Es.' So, down we went to Essex with Charles Cholmondeley and Kate Reardon, making it just in time to hear them exchange vows. Two Bishops, eight children, wonderful hymns, and some shoving after the ceremony when the paparazzi spotted the Duke of York. He is thin and once again good-looking, and could do far worse than marry Kate Reardon, a girl he doesn't know, but one that has all the qualities missing from those who have brought the House of Windsor to the state it's in.
During the reception a strange thing happened. An acquaintance of mine, David Ker, who is in trade — he sells modern old masters, or something to that effect — spotted some dirt on Prince Andrew's shoe, took out his handker- chief, got down on his knees, and pro- ceeded to shine it. I thought it To be on the safe side, I swallowed my pill inside a condom.' extraordinary, until Ker came up to me and gave me a cock and bull story about his ancestor and Audley End. Dave always talks about ancestry to me, which leads me to believe that his own must be quite recent. He is a large man of ample girth and wears large glasses. He has a nice wife who once described the act of love with her husband as comparable to `being flattened by a very large wardrobe with a very small key'. Be that as it may, Ker loves royalty more than he loves call- ing me Imran, which he does non-stop. He also did come up with the funniest remark on video. As the camera turned, I reached for a sandwich, prompting him to `thank Lord Derby for providing kebab for Taki'. At a loss for words, I only later pointed out that Ker is trying to improve his figure by cutting himself in two in order to continue his grovelling to both the Prince and Princess of Wales.
Otherwise, it's been a bad week for friends. Bill Shand Kydd lies grievously injured in hospital following a fall from his horse. Jason Courage ditto, and Char- lie Glass is mugged by three cowardly blacks who fracture his skull and cut his face. My closest friend is undergoing chemotherapy. And the good lead I had prepared in case Anne Applebaum became editor of the Speccie — 'after 18 Years I suddenly want to go to bed with the editor' — is wasted. I like Frank Johnson very much but for some strange reason I don't want to sleep with him.
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